End of the Line
by CoolBreeze1
Summary: Sheppard reaches his limits when he's captured by a group after the city of Atlantis. Prequel to the story, Going Home. Warnings: some torture, Shep whump.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Here's my answer to the challenge! This is a prequel to Titan5's Going Home, so it comes immediately before where her story starts. I tried to stick as close to the facts of her story as possible, but any inconsistencies are my own errors. Hope you enjoy it, and make sure to read Titan5's story right after this!_

**End of the Line**

_**Chapter 1**_

John Sheppard stepped out of the trees and into the wide, grassy field. The sun was bright overhead and beat into his jacket, warming his skin. He shivered slightly at the change in temperature. The stargate on this world was buried deep in woods too dense to allow a puddle jumper through, and the hour long walk in the damp shadows beneath the canopy of trees had chilled him more than he realized.

"Anyone want sun block?" Rodney McKay asked. He stood at the tree line, just barely within the shadows and slathered on the lotion. Ronon and Teyla stepped out into the sunny field at the same time, shaking their heads and laughing.

"Oh, yeah, laugh it up. I fail to see the humor in being burned alive by UV radiation. You tell me: how is skin cancer funny?"

"We're hardly burning alive, McKay," Ronon answered.

Teyla turned her face toward the sun, soaking in the warmth. John smiled slightly at her, glad he wasn't the only one who had gotten cold. He'd been on active duty for over a month now, but at times he still felt like he had barely recovered. The puddle jumper crash and near starvation of so many months ago, followed by a long recovery, had felt never-ending. He was still thin and got cold fast. He tired quickly too, but he wouldn't admit to that.

"Colonel? Sun block?"

John looked up to see McKay holding out the tube of lotion, his face open, kind—not the usual McKay. Not that McKay was unkind, John amended. Just never so…considerate.

"No, thanks," John answered and tried not to notice the momentary look of disappointment crease McKay's face. He turned back to look across the grassy field, and was suddenly and almost inexplicably reminded of a grass field he had hiked to with his mother and father. He couldn't have been more than six or seven at the time, and they'd made a special trip just for a picnic. John smiled at the image of his mother running, her arms outstretched, and the sound of his father's laughter as John chased a flock of birds out of their hiding places in the deep grass. It had been a long time since he'd thought of his early life, or his mother and father.

It was Teyla that finally took the lead, spurring them along. John breathed in deeply at the light breeze that suddenly fluttered through the field. The fresh air filled his lungs, and his mood lifted as he fell into place behind his teammates.

"I am sure that Major Lorne and his team are anxious for our arrival," Teyla said to no one in particular. The four of them trudged through the grass, occasional conversation bouncing between everyone but John.

John's mind drifted as he walked along. A drip of sweat rolled down the side of his face, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He noticed then that Teyla and Ronon were keeping a sharp eye open for any unexpected visitors, and he shook himself out of his fugue.

They were offworld, and offworld meant possible danger. He walked slightly behind his teammates—watching their backs, he told himself—and tried to ignore the growing ache in his legs and the mounting sweat dripping off of his forehead.

"Are you alright, John?" Teyla asked, startling John out of his thoughts. He'd been wandering along for who knows how long, not realizing that his mind had drifted again.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Why?"

Ronon and McKay turned around, and John saw that they were much farther in front of him than he'd intended.

"You seem tired," Teyla answered.

"A little. Sorry," John mumbled.

"Why are you walking so slow, Colonel? You're not trying to make me feel better, are you? I am quite capable of hiking for hours on end," McKay yelled.

"Really?" Ronon responded, arching his eyebrow.

"Shut up, you oaf." But he took a step away from Ronon as he said it, flinching when Ronon raised his arm, then scowling when he realized the much bigger man was simply taking a swig of water from his canteen.

John would have laughed, but laughing seemed to require more energy than he had at the moment. As he and Teyla caught up to them, he felt the eyes of his teammates on him and he squirmed uncomfortably.

"Let's go. Losing daylight," he quipped, but even to his own ears, the voice sounded run down. He pressed forward, passed his friends, and missed the looks of concern they exchanged behind his back.

"Are you sure you don't want to take a break? I'm just saying I don't mind stopping," McKay spoke first. John heard Ronon stifle a laugh.

"You're always laughing at me. What is it with you anyway? What happened to the whole team concept—supportive through thick and thin, sickness and health…"

"Are those not the words used when a man and woman are bonded in marriage?" Teyla asked, and John could hear the note of teasing in the inflection of her voice.

"Marriage? What? No! I mean, they are, but that's not what I meant. Like I'd want to marry all of you. You'd drive me insane. All those reference to alien creatures I have no first-hand experience with so can't see the humor in the described situation—not that I'd want to run into some of those creatures by the way. And why are you walking so slow, Sheppard?"

John started at the sound of his name and turned slightly. McKay was right on his heels and John flinched, taking an involuntary step back—right into Ronon, who caught him by the arm to steady him.

"Sorry," John said. He could feel his cheeks flush with heat.

"You have not been on active duty for long. Perhaps you are still recovering."

They looked at John. He could feel their eyes boring into him, waiting for him to respond. _I'm fine, _their eyes seemed to will him to say, but the words reached the tip of John's tongue and no further. He shrugged and kept walking. Lorne was waiting.

* * *

"Colonel," Major Evan Lorne said as he stepped forward and saluted. John saluted back and smiled.

"How are things going?" He glanced around the excavation site, noting how much of the field the scientists had dug up since they'd arrived two days earlier.

"As exciting as ever, sir."

"That dull, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Lorne answered. "Although in our line of work, that's not necessarily a bad thing in my book."

"I'd have to agree with that assessment, Major."

The two of them walked along the perimeter of the excavation as Lorne gave his report—brief as it was. No sign of indigenous life, but occasional blips on the life signs detectors. Possibly large animals, but nothing that came close enough to the teams for them to know for sure.

The sun was high in the sky, pounding the back of John's neck. He could feel sweat trickling down his back and soaking into his t-shirt. The teams switched: John's team took up positions while Lorne's team headed back to Atlantis. It wasn't the usual type of assignment his team got, but every team had to do scientist babysitting duty, including his own. He couldn't very well ask his men to do something he didn't do himself, and it was only for 24 hours.

The afternoon passed slowly, but John felt his energy levels rejuvenate a little. There wasn't that much walking required, and the sun felt good. He shed his coat, tempted to leave his vest off as well, but shrugged back into it in the end. The scientists ignored them mostly, digging in their trenches as they uncovered possible Ancient ruins. McKay rushed between each site, urging the scientists to uncover more than just old rocks.

Teyla and Ronon spread out along the perimeter, and the three of them kept a close eye on the trees. They'd seen nothing so far, not even Lorne's blips on the life signs detector. He knew Teyla and Ronon were still watching him closely when they thought he wasn't looking, but nothing he said would make them stop, so he ignored it for the moment. Maybe when they got back to Atlantis he'd talk to them both.

The sky was a deep dark blue, and the pale green leaves on the trees fluttered in the wind. John suddenly flashed on the puddle jumper crash as it tore through the leaves and branches of that distant world. He gasped at the memory, and the present world tilted under his feet.

John staggered to the side, catching himself on a tree. The ground continued to spin and he closed his eyes. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees until the episode passed. He could feel sweat dripping off his face, but he suddenly felt cold. He shivered and sucked in deep breaths until his sense of equilibrium returned.

"Sheppard?"

Ronon. He should have known the big man would notice him.

"Sorry, it's okay. I'm okay now."

"You're not okay. You're white as a sheet!" McKay hollered as he barged over. A few of the scientists poked their heads up and looked at John with open concern. John turned his head away from their gaze.

"I just…I just got a little dizzy. I haven't eaten anything in awhile." In truth, he could feel the exhaustion creeping into every limb. He'd been ripped from sleep by a nightmare after only two hours of restless tossing and turning the night before, and then he had lain awake the rest of the night staring out the window.

"Well, then eat. Here." McKay shoved a powerbar in John's face. John grabbed it reluctantly. He wasn't really all that hungry, but it had been awhile since he'd eaten and Carson was still harping on him about his weight, urging him every week to put on a few more ounces after all the weight he'd lost from nearly starving to death.

He sat down on a nearby boulder, purposefully opening the powerbar and taking a bite in front of McKay. Ronon patted him on the back and walked toward Teyla, no doubt to let her know what had happened. John scowled in irritation.

"Keep making that face and it will freeze like that forever."

John looked up to see McKay standing over him, arms folded.

"My mother used to tell me that," John smirked, hoping it would alleviate the worry hovering just below the surface of McKay's irate expression.

"What was that all about anyway? Are you sick?"

"I'm not sick, McKay. I'm fine." John enunciated the last two words—the words he knew his team had wanted to hear him say earlier that now flowed easily off his tongue. He glared at the scientist, daring him to contradict him.

"You're definitely not fine."

"Go away."

McKay didn't. He stood there, staring at John. John's hand tightened around the powerbar in irritation.

"McKay—"

"What? You're fine? Everything's normal? You're all pale and clammy and you almost passed out and we're offworld and it really hasn't been that long since Carson let you back on active—"

John bolted to his feet, faster even than he thought was possible, and McKay stepped back in surprise. John's face morphed from irritation to anger.

"I am fine. I've been fine for weeks. If I wasn't fine, Carson would never have cleared me for active duty." He tossed the powerbar to the ground. "Leave. Me. Alone."

"Whoa, okay. But seriously, you don't usually snap like that, which leads me to believe you're not fine. Physically, fine, yes, I concede. You have recovered. But mentally—"

"McKay—" John hissed through clenched teeth.

"What is going on here?" Teyla asked, walking quickly toward them. She stepped between John and Rodney, pushing the two apart. "John?"

"I'm fine. Why won't any of you believe that? I am fine. The last few months have been hell but I'm recovering and I can deal with this on my own. I don't need you whispering behind my back and tip-toeing around to keep an eye on me like I'm suddenly going to snap—"

"You mean like when you snapped just—Ow!!" McKay yelped as Ronon wacked him on the side of the head.

"We are sorry, John. We were just concerned for you." Teyla grabbed his arm as she spoke, gently guiding him away from McKay and Ronon and a couple of scientists behind them who had stopped their work to listen to the argument. "It has been a trying time for all of us, but you are correct. You are recovering well."

"I have recovered."

"You have recovered," Teyla conceded. She watched him as they walked and John felt his face flush with heat again, this time out of embarrassment. _I am such an ass sometimes._

"We should spread out, so we can keep a watch on the widest area possible."

"Yes, colonel." She gave his arm a soft squeeze then continued on ahead. John watched her as she scanned the trees and he bit down the frustration welling up within him, this time directed at himself. His patience was on a short string lately, but he forced himself to swallow his anger and focus on the task at hand.

The afternoon passed quietly after that. He knew his team was still keeping an eye on him, but he ignored them. They, in turn, ignored his outburst from earlier. McKay returned to bugging the scientists for any new discoveries; Ronon and Teyla matched Sheppard's pace around the excavation site and watched the trees.

The sun was just starting to sink into the trees when John saw a flash of movement in the woods in front of him, like a shadow. It was too quick to have been a leaf caught in the breeze. He stopped, staring intently into the trees. Moss-covered trunks and limbs and lime green bushes, thick and nearly impenetrable, stared back.

Another flash—a shadow that jumped from one tree to another, barely perceptible in the corner of his eye. He turned his head slightly, but whatever he'd seen had disappeared into the forest background again. He dug into his vest, pulling out the life signs detector without looking away from the woods. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something was watching him.

The life-signs detector lit up in his hand, and he glanced down at it for a split second before looking back up at the trees. He raised his P-90 this time, flipping off the safety as he scanned the trees.

He'd seen it clearly—a white dot less than thirty feet from his own. In the distance, off to the side, he could see Ronon moving along the tree line, his gun raised, and he imagined Teyla and McKay taking up similar positions on the other side.

He stashed the life-signs detector and palmed his radio.

"I've got something. In the woods."

"What?"

"Not sure yet. He hasn't shown himself. Gather the civilians and get ready to head back toward the gate."

"Sheppard?"

"I don't know, Ronon, but something's out there, watching us."

John scanned the trees again. He glanced behind him at the sound of the scientists climbing out of their holes. Satisfied that they were following his orders, he turned back to the woods.

This time, he saw the shadow clearly duck from one tree to another. A flash of dark hair, a bare arm…

"Sir?"

John jumped in surprise. One of the scientist was standing next to him and looking into the woods with a combination of horror and excitement.

"What are you doing? Get the hell back," John hissed.

A whizzing sound, followed by a solid thump was the only reply John got. The man in the woods moved again, too fast for John to react, and disappeared again into the trees. The scientist next to John crumpled to the ground.

John kept his eyes and weapon up, but he kneeled down and grabbed the scientist, backpedaling until he reached a trench. He fell as much as jumped into it. Ronon was running toward him—John could hear him—but he kept his eyes on the trees, waiting for the shadow man to reappear.

"Get everyone to the gate now," he yelled into his radio. "Ronon—"

"Here," Ronon answered, jumping down into the trench next to him. John risked a glance down at the scientist and grimaced at the arrow sticking out of the man's shoulder. His face was pale, but his chest still moved with every ragged inhale.

"Get that guy. I'll watch your back."

Ronon didn't argue. John's heart was pounding in his chest, but professionalism took over, giving him a strength and an edge against the fatigue that had been nagging him all day. Ronon slung the unconscious scientist over his shoulder, mindful of the arrow in the man's chest, and climbed out of the trench.

Shadow man made his move again, but John was ready and he sprayed the trees with a burst of bullets. He ran backward then, his trigger finger taut, but shadow man had either moved positions or lay dead or injured on the ground.

They cleared the excavation site, and Ronon's pace quickened. John had just turned to run full tilt after Ronon when he heard another whish and thump as an arrow stuck the ground inches from his feet. He spun, and his heart sank at the appearance of at least a couple dozen men pouring from the trees and running toward them. He watched as a small group of them broke off and headed toward Teyla, McKay, and the civilians ahead of them.

"Ronon, they're flanking us. Get to Teyla and McKay and get the others to the gate. I'll cover you."

"Sheppard!"

"I'll be fine. Go!"

Ronon took off, the scientist on his shoulder flopping limply against his back. The others were at least a couple hundred yards in front of him. John veered off to the side into the woods, looking for a defensible position as he ran.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. John climbed behind a large boulder and watched his team's retreat. A few seconds later, their attackers appeared, running through the fields. A few of them had crude looking spears, but others had something similar to a crossbow, which they fired with surprising ease as they ran. They wore dark clothes—browns and greens that blended well into the woods.

John opened fire, noting when some of them went down. Half the group changed direction in mid-stride, heading toward John. He had barely a moment to feel relief that the others would only have a handful of attackers to deal with when the splinter group was upon him. John fired again, biting his lip as he focused on them. Arrows whipped passed his head or bounced off the rocks in front of him.

"Sheppard, we're at the gate!" Ronon's voice cut through the sound of automatic weapons fire.

"I'm on my way," John yelled into his radio. He fired another burst into the trees then backed up and started running toward the gate. A small stream appeared in front of him, and John leapt, easily crossing the three-foot distance. What he wasn't expecting, however, was one of his attackers popping out beside him when he landed and smacking him across the back of the head with some kind of club.

He had just enough time to remember the small group that had split off from the main group near the excavation site and then he hit the ground with his chest and immediately curled into himself. He wrapped his arms around his ribs then grabbed at the ground, dragging his fingers through the dirt as he struggled to breathe.

His lungs suddenly inflated, chasing away the white spots dancing across his vision. He coughed, sucking in too much air at once. After a long moment, he finally opened his eyes, certain he was breathing again and found himself face down in the dirt. Bare feet lined his vision, encircling him. He looked up, tried to smile, and reached for his radio.

He never saw the man come up behind him and smash the back of his club into John's head again.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

John jerked awake, sending a pulsing throb from his head all the way down his back. He would have screamed, but his tongue seemed caught on his teeth and for a second, he felt like he was suffocating.

_Calm down, just calm down,_ he told himself. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but he forced himself to take a slow, deep breath through his nose. Rough fabric rubbed against his face, and he pushed his tongue forward, tasting sweat and dirt. He was gagged, tightly. The fabric pulled at the skin on his face, and his jaw ached from being open for so long.

He squirmed again, feeling something tight wrapped around his head. Blindfolded, he realized. The knot in the back dug painfully into his head and what was no doubt a very large bruise from being wacked twice.

Blindfolded, gagged…he tried to move his arms next, but no surprise, they were also tied tightly behind his back. His ankles were equally bound. He could squirm and shift a little along the ground, but otherwise, he was completely immobilized.

He breathed again heavily through his nose. His arms, especially his shoulders were starting to ache like nothing else. Wherever he was being held was chilly as well. He could feel cool dampness seeping from the hard ground into his t-shirt. He shivered slightly and tried to curl up into himself a little to conserve body heat, and only then realized his vest had been taken. No vest, no radio, no gun. He moved his feet—no boots. They'd taken everything but his t-shirt and BDU pants.

He dozed off eventually. He had no idea how long—the blindfold blocked any light that might let him judge the passage of time. When he woke up, both his arms and legs were numb. He shifted against the cold stone, rubbing his face against the rough floor in an effort to at least dislodge the gag, but the binding was too tight. The movement also ignited the pain in his head, and he felt his gut churn sympathetically.

He froze and concentrated on breathing through his nose and settling his stomach. Throwing up with a gag in his mouth would not be good at the moment, possibly even deadly. After several long moments, his stomach seemed to quiet down, and he vowed not to move his head again for a long, long time.

* * *

Sudden jerking on his arms brought John to full awareness instantly, and his head exploded in pain. He groaned into the gag and tried to open his eyes, forgetting he was also blindfolded. His entire body was numb except for a throbbing headache, and it took a moment for him to remember what had happened.

He flashed on the grassy field, the excavation, the attack…he'd been captured. For a brief moment, he listened for the sounds of his teammates and couldn't decide whether he was relieved or more concerned when he didn't hear them. He could feel himself being moved around, but the sensations were distant, almost muted.

He felt something against his back, but before he could really wrap his head around what was going on, his arms swung loose in front of his body. He grunted into the gag around his mouth at sudden fiery agony that raced up them and across his back as circulation returned, and tears of pain soaked into the blindfold.

By the time the burning, throbbing pain running through his entire body started to recede, John realized he was being dragged down a hallway, two guards holding him under his arms. His legs dragged behind him, but he couldn't move them fast enough to get them underneath him. His muscles felt like jelly.

His head was swimming as well. He didn't think it was possible to be dizzy and blindfolded, but the world seemed to spin and lurch underneath him, twisting his stomach with nausea.

The guards threw him into a chair and pulled his arms behind him again. John whimpered at the movement, but already his thoughts were onto what was coming next. Being tied to a chair generally meant someone was coming to talk to him, which did not bode well. _What happened to my boring 24-hour babysitting duty? _

The room was quiet. The guards had either slipped out after binding his arms and legs to the chair, or they were still in the room, watching him. John stilled, listening for any sign of them, and after a moment decided he was alone. He felt himself relax into the chair. Alone was good for now, and this room was a little warmer than his cell.

He wondered how long he'd been in his cell, tied and gagged and blindfolded—unable to talk, or move, or see. It had to have been hours, maybe longer. John was sure he'd been asleep for awhile that last time. Had he been here over a day? Where the hell was his team?

He would have screamed if not for the gag. His head was still throbbing and giving no sign of letting up. Concussion for sure. He flashed again on the man stepping out of the shadows as he jumped the small creek, his club already swinging toward John's head.

He would not go down like this. Anger ripped through his chest, giving him energy and he pulled at the bindings around his arms. The ropes bit back, digging into his skin until his wrists started to bleed. He continued to pull, however—even tried to flop over sideways off the chair—but whoever had caught him obviously knew what they were doing.

John sagged into the chair in exhaustion, eventually giving up. The ropes were as tight as ever. He shook his head, but the blindfold wasn't moving either. In the ensuing silence, he could hear a distant incessant thrumming sound, and a slower, closer tapping. Water. Rain maybe. The storm seemed to hear his thoughts, and answered with a rumbling crack of thunder.

The thought of water pounding at the building and dripping through its cracks suddenly made him aware of how dry his mouth was. The gag seemed to soak any and all moisture, and his tongue was starting to feel swollen. He looked up, even though he couldn't see anything, hoping that the ceiling would somehow open up to the rain outside and drown him in water.

John wasn't aware that he'd dozed off until a sharp slap on his face jerked him upright again. He looked around in a panic, hearing the sounds of breathing and footsteps all around him but unable to see anything. A scuffing sound to his left had him turning his head only to be struck on the right. His head whipped around to the right, and someone kicked him on his left.

And so it continued. John tried to scream through the gag, but his mouth was so dry now he could hardly get it to move. Hit after hit, kick after kick—not enough to seriously injure him, but enough to keep him awake and turning blindfolded eyes from one side of the room to the next. His heart was pounding in his chest, his muscles shaking from exhaustion and the adrenaline that surged at every sound around him.

His headache had reached monumental proportions, feeling like someone had taken a battering ram to the inside of his skull. The occasional hits to the head surely weren't helping, nor was the continuing dehydration. He grunted as someone stepped up and kicked him in the shin. Water. He'd do almost anything for water at this point.

The sounds slowly diminished, as did the number of hits. Maybe they got bored. John tried to keep his head up in defiance, but he couldn't fight the fatigue pulling him deep into the chair. He felt his head droop, his chin resting against his chest…

A bucket of cold water dumped over his head and he jerked awake. His heart lurched in his chest and he cried out. His throat was tight, cutting off any sound, but the attempt to scream had him gasping in air through the gag, and with the air came a few drops of moisture that had soaked through the fabric in his mouth.

The drops were pure heaven. He sucked on the gagged, pulling as much water into his mouth as he could. He heard the men who held him captive for the first time as well as they snickered at his desperation. He didn't care. He squirmed again against the bindings and wished they'd dump another bucket of water over his head. The little bit of water he'd managed to swallow was just enough to remind his body of what it was so desperately craving.

More footsteps, and the laughs around him cut off abruptly. John stopped moving at the sound of someone whispering frantically. He couldn't hear the words but the tension in the air had just ratcheted up, and even blindfolded, gagged, and bound, John could feel it. Something had changed.

Rough hands at the back of his head pulled the gag even more tightly around his mouth—so tight that for a second John thought it might rip through his skin—and then it loosened completely. The gag was ripped from his mouth, followed closely by the blindfold.

The sudden light piercing his eyes made him cringe. He squeezed his eyes tight against the assault and looked down, but the light curled in around the shadows. It was painful after so many hours—days even—of not seeing anything.

Someone grabbed a hold of his hair and pulled his head back, and he couldn't help the whimper of pain that escaped. Something was pressed against his lips.

"Drink."

The voice was low and harsh, and John obeyed instantly. In the back of his mind, he wondered if maybe he should have put up a little more resistance, but his body's instincts overrode everything else.

The man tilted the cup against John's mouth, and John gulped down the water. By the third swallow he was choking. He felt his stomach flip and he swallowed desperately against the coughs shaking his chest. He did not want to throw up. Not now. Not when he'd just gotten some water.

He opened his eyes and found the light wasn't as intense now. Men moved along the walls like dark shadows, but John's vision was still blurry. He blinked, trying to bring them into focus. One of the men detached from the wall and returned with the cup. _Not cup,_ John realized, _ladle._ Water splashed over the edges.

John couldn't look anywhere but at that water, and he opened his mouth in anticipation. He was so thirsty. The man tipped the ladle toward him, letting him drink a few sips before jerking his hand back and dumping the water all down the front of John's shirt.

John had leaned forward as the man had moved the ladle, desperate for the water, and strained his neck when the water was suddenly out of reached. He didn't realize that the man had done it on purpose until the laughter erupted all around him. He grit his teeth in anger, but knew they could do the same thing again and he'd react exactly the same way no matter how hard any of them laughed.

The man with the ladle stepped back, and another man stepped forward. He stared at John, a sneer marring his weathered face. The man was tough—the thin scars on his face and hands were evidence enough of that. A large knife swung from his belt, and John tried not to look at it.

The man leaned forward, bringing his face only inches from John's.

"Where are you from?"

_And so it begins. _John pressed his lips together and looked away. He was tired and weak and still dying of thirst, but he would not answer this man.

"We saw you digging in our field? Where are you from?"

John closed his eyes.

"You look familiar. I've seen your face before."

John opened his eyes at that. The man staring back at him had yellow eyes, foul breath, and teeth rotting out of his mouth. He was pretty sure he'd never seen him before.

"Sorry I can't say the same for you," John answered. He tried to make it sound relaxed, but his voice came out in a hoarse whisper and faint tremors ran through his body.

"Jamayan."

"What?"

"My name is Jamayan. I am the leader of the Natayans, on whose land you have trespassed. You have trespassed before."

"Nope, sorry. My first time here," John smiled, but anger and fear twitched the muscles around his eyes.

"Where are you from?"

"Can't remember."

"Where are you from?" Jamayan yelled.

"Can't remember."

"Answer me, you fool. Where are you and your people from?"

"Can't remem—" The fist to his gut choked out all sound and John leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed at the sudden ripping pain in his gut.

"Where are you—"

"Go to hell," he whispered. He would have screamed it had he been able to.

The next hit was not entirely unexpected, nor the hit after that. John's arms and legs were numb again from being tied to the chair for so long, but his stomach, chest, and face screamed in agony as Jamayan rained blow after blow upon him.

After a long moment, Jamayan stood up, breathing hard. John's head lolled on his chest and he fought to keep his eyes open. He had to be ready for whatever came next. He had to be ready. He had to—

"Where are you from?"

John lifted his head slowly. His neck quaked at the effort. He could feel blood dripping down his cheek and nose. Some of the blood ran into his mouth, its metallic taste swirling around his tongue. He tried to spit it out but only managed to dribble it down his chin.

Jamayan stared back, the anger warping his face into a grotesque mask, and for a split second, John saw the image of his father and the memory of the moment the old man had found out about his black mark in Afghanistan. John's chest twisted, the sharp edge of the memory more painful than anything Jamayan or the other Natayans had inflicted on him so far.

_Sorry, dad, _John thought, maybe even mumbled under his breath, and had just enough time to blink before Jamayan's fist slammed into the side of his head and the world went dark.

* * *

When John woke up, the stiffness in his arms and legs and the dull throbbing of his head told him as well as any watch or clock might have that he'd been unconscious for hours. He blinked in the darkness, thinking at first he was blindfolded again until he reached up with one hand and rubbed his face.

He looked down at his hands in surprise but saw only black. The Natayans had left him untied this time—gag and blindfold free—but the cell was dark and his body stiff in pain. He wasn't much better off than he had been before.

With shaky arms, he pushed himself up and immediately squeezed his eyes shut as the ground seemed to tilt and bob underneath him. Not that closing his eyes changed any of that. John's stomach was starting to twist and churn, and the nausea traveled slowly toward his mouth.

"Not happening, so not happening," he muttered. There was a faint glow of light coming from somewhere. His eyes adjusted slowly and he could just make out the wall of the cell a few feet to his left. He slid over, sighing in relief when he was able to sag against it.

He was exhausted again but he fought to keep his eyes open. He had to take stock of his situation. Had to look at the cell and possibilities for escape, examine his injuries, measure what he was capable of doing within the circumstances, and how the Natayans might react and what he could expect from a rescue team.

John's eyes snapped open. He was lying down again against the wall. He'd dozed off—not for long, but he'd still fallen asleep. He shook his head, then grit his teeth at the stab of pain in his temples, but the pain woke him up completely. He held onto that and pushed himself up, using the wall for support.

He had to stand up, otherwise he'd fall asleep again. His arms shook as he pushed himself to his knees, and his legs shook as he pulled himself to his feet. He managed to stumble across to the front of his cell—a wall of bars. He leaned his head against them and peered as far as he could in each direction. One way disappeared into inky blackness; the other way revealed a thin line of light cascading down a set of stairs.

The light suddenly exploded into the cell as the door was flung open. John jerked back, tripped and landed on his back. Heavy boots stomped down the stairs and a guard appeared at the door. His face was in shadows, his dark eyes sinking into nothing. He set a cup on the floor within easy reach through the bars, and disappeared up the stairs as quickly as he'd appeared.

The cell was plunged into darkness again as the door was slammed shut. John blinked as his eyes adjusted back to the bare slit of light sneaking in from under the door. He sat up slowly, holding his head, vowing to himself to be a little more graceful the next time he fell. He could see the cup the guard had set down and he crawled toward it.

A small drop of water splashed onto his hand as he lifted it, and he drank the rest greedily, shaking the cup to get the last bit of moisture. He was still thirsty, but not quite as badly as before. He set the cup back on the ground and looked at the closed door hopefully, but no one returned to refill his cup.

Exhaustion was pulling at him again. He shouldn't be this tired. He crawled to the far side of the cell and leaned back against the wall again. His face and chest ached from being punched, and he winced as he pressed his hands into the bruises, taking stock of himself. He had a few painful bumps on his shins as well from being kicked. The worst pain was his head, and the longer he stayed awake, the more it hurt.

He scrunched down as comfortably as he could against the wall. The dampness made him shiver a little and he pulled his legs up as close to his chest as he could manage. There was no way he was going to be able to stay awake, so he dropped his head onto his knees and didn't even try.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

John heard the thumping of footsteps and the jingle of keys in a metal lock, but he was too groggy to do anything. His back was stiff from having fallen asleep sitting up. He lifted his head to address whomever was making all the racket, but before he could even bring the room into focus, someone jerked on his arms and brought him to a standing position.

Two someones, John realized. John looked toward the guard on his right and then felt some kind of bag being thrown over his head. His arms were jerked back behind him and bound tightly, and John cried out in pain.

The guards said nothing. A second later they were pushing him forward, through the cell door, up the stairs, down hallway after hallway. John tried to memorize the turns but there were too many and his headache had returned. He wondered vaguely if the guards were leading him around in circles to throw off his mental map.

One of them spun him around and shoved him backward. John backpedaled to catch his balance, but something hit him in the back of the legs and he started to fall. With his arms tied, he could do nothing but wait for impact. He braced himself, but the impact hit sooner than expected.

The chair. Other guards, or maybe the same guards, untied his hands briefly and allowed him to scoot back into the wooden chair as comfortably as possible, which wasn't much. They tied his arms up again, as well as his legs.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked.

"We prefer not to take chances," a rough voice answered from somewhere off to his left. John turned his head toward the sound, and cringed at the bright light as the bag was ripped off his head.

"What do you want, Jamayan?"

"You remembered my name. I'm impressed." Jamayan pulled up a chair, crossing his legs almost daintily as he sat down in front of John. In any other situation, John might have laughed, given that Jamayan's fat, unshaven, greasy appearance was anything but dainty. "Where are you from?"

"Lots of places," John answered. "My dad was military, so we moved every few years. He retired when I was in high school, though—"

"Where are you from?" Jamayan's voice took on a hard edge.

"I was just getting to that part. As I was saying, he retired when I was in high school and we settled down in this little town in California. Nice place, really. If you're ever in California, you should drop in—"

Jamayan smacked John across the face in an open-handed punch that snapped John's head so far to the side it popped the vertebrae in his neck. His eyes started to water at the explosion of pain throughout his face, down his neck into his back and chest. He let his chin rest on his chest a moment, not ready to stare down Jamayan until he could school his face into a more neutral expression.

Jamayan wasn't having it. He grabbed John's chin, forcing him to look up. His breath was beyond foul, his teeth black and yellowed and decaying.

"Where is Atlantis?"

"Atlantis was destroyed," John spat out. He glared at Jamayan, but his mind was reeling. How the hell did he know Atlantis?

"Give me the address to Atlantis."

"There is no address. The city was destroyed."

Jamayan stood back, hands on his hips. "We'll do this the hard way then."

_Ah, crap,_ John thought. Guards on either side of him jumped forward, untying his hands and forcing him to stand. Another guard was undoing the straps around his legs, and John briefly considered kicking the man as soon as his legs were free, but his arms were suddenly jerked above his head and tied together.

He looked up and saw his wrists being attached to a rope around a beam. The guard at this feet quickly wrapped the rope around both ankles, binding them tightly together.

John could feel his heart rate going up as the guards finished. Jamayan stood across from him, smirking, and once again, John forced the muscles in his face to relax, to not give away what he was feeling.

"What is the address to your world? What is the address to Atlantis?"

John stared back. There was no answer he could give that would convince Jamayan to let him go. Jamayan jerked his head at one of the guards, and the man pulled on the rope attached to John's wrists. He felt his arms pull tightly over his head.

Jamayan raised an eyebrow at John, but John glared back. His captor jerked his head again at the guard and the rope was pulled up another few inches. John stood on his toes, trying to keep his balance. His arms were screaming in pain already but there was no way he was going to reveal that Atlantis still existed.

"Well?" Jamayan asked.

John stared straight ahead, finding a stain on the wall behind Jamayan to focus on. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jamayan jerk his head at the guard again.

John tensed and the rope was pulled up again. A small whimper of pain escaped him before he was able to clamp his mouth shut. His arms and shoulders were already shaking as they struggled to hold up his weight. He could just scrape the floor with his toes, but it wasn't nearly enough to take some of the weight off of his arms. Sweat dripped down the side of his face.

"What is the address to Atlantis?"

John didn't think he could have answered, even if he'd wanted do. It was taking all of his focus and energy to not scream hysterically. Jamayan waved at the guards around him and they quickly left the room, and then he leaned forward, his face inches from John's.

"I'll give you a moment or two to think about your answer. If you need anything, just yell." He smiled, spit speckling his lips.

If John had had any spit in his mouth, he probably would have sent it Jamayan's way, but he'd been dehydrated to begin with, and the sweating wasn't helping. John was a little surprised he had enough water in him to sweat in the first place.

Jamayan left, and John dangled from the ropes. He could almost stand a little on his big toe, but with his ankles tied together he couldn't hold his balance for long. His back and chest were throbbing now as well, but his hands were numb and the feeling was slowly crawling downward.

How anyone could possibly sleep in such a position was a mystery, but somehow John managed it. He'd given in eventually to the pain and screamed himself hoarse, but no one came. His arms and shoulders were almost completely numb, although anytime his weight shifted even a little bit, a feeling like an electric bolt would race up one side or the other.

Hours passed. John recited the Air Force Code of Conduct to himself, then song lyrics, then math equations to pass the time. He dozed off and on, not really asleep but not really awake either. His mind drifted in a haze. He remembered taunting McKay just last week, standing over his shoulder and correcting his math.

He'd always been good at math. Always. When he was really young, he'd memorize long strings of random numbers and "perform" them for his mother. In high school, his math teacher had pushed him harder and farther than anyone else, and then math had led to the Air Force and the Air Force had led to flying and flying had led, eventually, to Atlantis.

Someone entered the room. He opened his eyes to see the face of young soldier approaching apprehensively.

"Please help me," John whispered, but almost no sound came out. The boy flushed and tried not to look at him.

"Jamayan asked me to give you water," he said. He held a cup to John's lips and tilted it carefully and without spilling until John had drunk all of it without choking.

John nodded at the boy in gratitude, unable to do or say anything else. He let his head sink forward again in weariness as the boy made a quick exit out of the room.

His team would come. Ronon would come. He saw Ronon in his mind, lying behind a crashed jumper, his leg broken, and his mind cast back, dredging up deeper memories. High school, drinking, joy riding, waking up in a hospital five days later with two broken legs, five broken ribs, a punctured lung, and the cold face of his father staring at him. The memory of his father jerked him awake, but he soon dozed off again, drifting in and out of consciousness.

"This is your face."

The voice floated around John, harsh and battering but muted. John groaned in response but otherwise didn't move. Couldn't move.

"This is you. This is your face." The voice said again. This time, rough hands grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. John whimpered in pain. It took him a few seconds to bring the paper held in front of his face into focus, and sure enough, his picture stared back at him.

"This is you," Jamayan said a third time, dropping the paper to stare at John. "It says anyone who captures this man and gives the Genii information on his world will be rewarded."

John blinked, his mind sluggish as he tried to follow Jamayan's side of the conversation.

"Give me the address to Atlantis."

Atlantis—Jamayan wanted Atlantis. John pressed his lips together in a tight line and stared back at Jamayan without answering. He had to keep Atlantis safe. He wouldn't give Atlantis up.

Jamayan let go of John's hair and John's head slumped forward. John moaned in pain but that was abruptly cut off when Jamayan's fist slammed into his side. He felt his vision gray out, a loud buzzing rush fill his ears, even as pain stabbed through his chest.

"Atlantis! I want Atlantis!" Jamayan yelled. John desperately sucked in oxygen. Jamayan slugged him again, and John screamed, his voice hoarse, as darkness edged in around the corners of his eyes.

A hand slapped his face, bringing him back to consciousness. He assumed it was Jamayan, but the man that lifted his head was younger and more lean. He dumped a cup of water into John's mouth, most of which spilled down the front of his shirt. Two guards stood on either side of him pulling at the ropes around his wrists.

His sluggish mind realized what they were doing and he struggled to get his feet under him before they finished. Too late, the guards released his arms and his right arm dropped to his side. The sudden return of circulation ignited a fire from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. There was a split second where he waited for the same thing to happen to his left, but then his wrist caught in the last strap, catching him with a sudden jerk. The shift in weight caused his legs to buckle at the same time, and his body swung to the side.

He felt his arm pop out of its socket, and a sound like tearing fabric deep within his shoulder. The pain stole his breath away before going instantly numb. He looked up to see Jamayan leaning in the doorway of the room, laughing at him, and then his vision tunneled to black.

* * *

John's return to consciousness was instantaneous. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back in his cell, blindfolded, but thankfully the guards had left his hands and wrists untied. Everything throbbed—arms, shoulders, back, chest, neck, head—and if he could have moved, he would have been writhing in agony. He tried to turn his head but only managed a few inches. The blindfold was tight, and not being able to see was completely unnerving, but his arms were about as useful as if they'd been tied up. He managed to lift his right forearm off the ground a few inches, but his left arm was dead.

The ground was cold and wet, and it seeped through John's clothes and into his skin. He shivered, igniting every nerve in his body and causing him to whimper and moan in pain. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in so much agony. On top of the pain, the stench of mildew, sweat, and urine from who knew how many previous occupants of the cell was making him gag, and he swallowed it back desperately.

He finally managed to lift his right arm high enough to rest on his stomach as if he could hold the nausea back with his hand. The shivering gradually subsided as his body temperature dropped, but the cold numbed the pain and John fell back to sleep.

He stood in front of a jumper ripped almost in half, the back half a dozen or so yards away. He could hear Ronon and McKay screaming for help from the front of the jumper, but his legs wouldn't move. He howled in rage as the cries of his teammates grew louder. His feet felt like lead weights as he finally managed to take a step.

The jumper rested in the middle of a green field, deep dark blue sky overhead, lime green leaves. _This isn't right,_ John thought, and it didn't feel right, but in the moment, it looked right. It made sense in the disconnected way dreams made sense. His mother ran past him, scaring a flock of bird out of the grass.

"Come on, Johnny. Run!" she yelled. John's eyes followed her as she passed but he still stood frozen in place.

"Sheppard! Help!" Ronon's voice screamed from the jumper. Flames leapt around the hull.

_No, that's not right. There was no fire._

"Don't let me die, Sheppard."

_Rodney?_ John felt his mouth open, felt the air rush out of his mouth, heard the sound of his voice in his head but he was mute and rooted to the spot. His father's face, cold and hard, loomed in front of him.

"You're a disgrace—to the Air Force, to your name, to your family."

John gasped, jerking awake and rolling to the side. The sudden movement was like broken glass being dragged under his skin. He gagged, choking on the little bit of bile that came up.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

John came to again to the sound of footsteps around his head and feet prodding him in the back and stomach.

"Wake up," a voice growled from somewhere above him.

John groaned.

"On your feet." Hands grabbed at him, pulling him up. His legs buckled immediately and grabbed onto one of the guards with his right hand as he fell forward. His left arm dangled uselessly.

The guard caught him and hefted him back up again. As John leaned on the man for support, his fingers brushed a knife sheathed in his belt. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, and with whatever willpower he had left, he forced his legs to lock and hold his weight. The guards dragged him forward, and he let his feet stumble. The guard with the knife reacted on instinct, throwing his arms around John to catch the weaker man.

John pulled the knife and plunged it into the guard's back. Despite the fact that he was blindfolded, his aim was right on and the guard dropped instantly to the ground with barely a sound. John fell with him unable to stop himself, but he pulled the knife out of the body as he hit the ground and even managed to dislodge the blindfold.

The other guard grabbed John by the back of his shirt and lifted him up, intending to toss him to the side, but John twisted and plunged the knife into the guard's chest. The guard's cry choked and gurgled as he too dropped to the ground.

John blinked up at the ceiling of his cell. His head was throbbing again, and he wondered how long he'd been lying on the ground. He turned his head to the side and saw the body of the first guard lying next to him.

Guards. Knife. Escape. He still had the knife in his hand, and he rolled to his knees, grunting in pain as he pushed himself to a sitting position. The cell swam in front of his eyes and he leaned against the cell bars breathing deeply. When the dizziness subsided, he pulled himself to his feet.

His left arm was still numb and hanging out of its socket. John hooked it around the bars and yanked, popping it back into place. He couldn't help the broken cry that escaped at the sudden rush of pain, but no other guards appeared. He was alone for the moment. He hooked his left arm into his belt, grateful that feeling was returning to the battered limb. The arm was still useless—too painful to move instead of too numb.

"Now or never," John muttered to himself. He forced his shaking legs up the stairs, opening the door and rushing into the next room. John knew he should be more cautious, but he barely had enough energy to remain standing. The guard sitting at the table looked up in surprise and John lunged at him before he could move.

The guard slumped to the ground, a pool of blood growing around his body. John stumbled into the hallway turning haphazardly to the right. He had no idea what direction to go in.

The complex he was being held in was surprising small. The guards had obviously led him around in circles before when bringing him up to the interrogation room. John stepped outside for the first time in days and breathed in the fresh air.

It was night, and bright stars shone above him. The compound was surprising empty of guards, but John couldn't risk taking any chances. He hugged the side of the building as he made his way to the nearest tree line.

He had no plan, just escape. He had no idea what direction the gate was in, so hoped he could find someplace to hole up in out in the woods until his team found him. He still had the transponder in his arm, so they should be able to track him easily enough.

He stumbled once, then twice, but he was so close to the trees now. With one final effort he pushed himself away from the building and started to run. A shout sounded behind him and he willed himself to run faster, to disappear into the trees.

Someone off to the side—much closer than he expected—shouted, and John spun around to face him. A thunderous boom echoed throughout the compound, and John suddenly felt himself flung backward into the ground. A second later, his leg erupted in pain. He screamed and curled forward, grabbing onto his thigh with the hand that still clutched the knife. Warm blood oozed down his pants.

By this time, guards pounded toward him. Two of them jerked him up but John could think of nothing but the raw pain in his leg. He bent forward, holding on to his leg as best as he could. His left arm dangled again, thankfully still in its socket, but swinging painfully as John squirmed in the guards' grasp.

"You fool!" Jamayan yelled coming at John with his fist raised.

John didn't think, just reacted. As soon as Jamayan was close enough he lunged, arcing his knife hand forward toward his captor's face. He connected and managed to slash the man in the face before the knife was knocked away and he was wrestled to the ground.

Jamayan howled in pain and rage, holding his hand to the side of his head where a deep gash bled freely. He jumped on John, pounding with both fists. John felt blow after blow after blow, and as he slipped unconscious, he almost hoped he wouldn't wake up again.

* * *

"John?"

The room was white. John blinked in surprise at the clean, bare walls that surrounded him. He knew this place, knew it from a long time ago.

"Johnny?"

He turned his head slightly, about the only movement he could manage. Dread suddenly filled him as his father leaned over him, his arms crossed. The man looked angry and tired and worn out and maybe even scared.

"Do you remember what happened?"

John shook his head. He remembered this conversation, but he also remembered not remembering what had happened. He blinked again, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. Pain lanced through his chest.

The room rematerialized around him. White walls, antiseptic smell, the clicking of footsteps in a hallway, his father standing over him looking pissed off.

"John?"

John licked his lips. His throat felt raw and swollen. "Dad?" he whispered.

His father slumped down into a nearby chair and dug his fingers into his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled, like he'd been wearing it for days. He was out of uniform too, which was an unusual occurrence ever since his mother had died.

"Five days, John. Five days. Do you know the hell you just put me through?"

John shook his head again, but he remembered. He'd been fourteen, a freshman in high school. Some buddies from his baseball team and some girls in a car. A case of beer. They'd been driving on gravel roads, fast, and John remembered his heart leaping in exhilaration as they flew over the hills.

"You were in an accident." His father stared at him, his face expressionless.

John's heart began pounding in his chest. He knew what was coming. He remembered what had happened next.

"You broke both your legs and five ribs, and you punctured a lung. You've been in a coma for the last five days." His father recited it to him like he was reading the list of ingredients off the back of a cereal box. John's heart twisted in his chest.

"I wish I'd died. Then you wouldn't have to put up with me anymore," he whispered. The child John had spit it out, anger and grief warring within him. Adult John said the words he'd heard himself say in his memory over and over again. He'd regretted saying it the first time almost instantly, but he couldn't stop himself from saying them again. Even with knowing what happened next.

His father stared at him, frozen. The man didn't even blink—just stared. John stared back, begging him with his eyes to say something—anything. Instead, he stood up and walked out of the room without a word, just like he had the first time.

"I can't do this," John muttered, wiping at tears suddenly flowing down his face. "I can't do this again."

"Tell me the address to Atlantis and this will end." His father was suddenly standing over him again.

"What?"

"Come on, Johnny. Just tell me where it is and then we can go home. It will be like it was when Mom was still alive."

John shook his head. His father smiled, reaching out a hand to squeeze John's shoulder.

"Tell me," his father said, but as he spoke, his face morphed into that of Jamayan's.

"Give me the address. Give me Atlantis," Jamayan snarled. John shook his head, and Kolya stepped out from behind.

"It's nothing personal," Kolya said, smiling, and then Jamayan was a Wraith and the Wraith slammed its feeding hand into John's head.

John screamed and jerked upright. The white walls of the hospital room dissolved into the dark, damp, stone walls of his cell, and John collapsed back to the ground. His shoulder and leg were throbbing and he rolled to the side to curl into himself.

"No more," he mumbled as his eyes drifted shut and he slipped back into the dream.

The sky was blue and bright above his head, and a flock of birds high up flew over him. He sat up, looking around at the long, yellow grass surrounding him. His mother stood far away from him, but she waved—a tiny figure almost swallowed up by the dark trees behind her. John started to walk toward her. To his right, a puddle jumper burned, but he ignored the screams coming from within.

"Mom?" he called out.

She continued to wave at him, but looked no closer than before. He tried to run, but he stumbled to his knees as the world spun dizzily around him.

"Sheppard, what's wrong with you?" McKay's voice rang out from across the field, and the scientist suddenly appeared next to him holding out his hand.

"I'm fine," John heard himself say.

"You are not fine." Teyla stood before him, Ronon next to her.

He wanted to run to them. Instead he heard himself say, "I can handle this myself."

His teammates retreated. _No! Don't go! _John thought, but he couldn't force the words out of his mouth.

"Leave me alone," he said instead. He blinked, and he was alone again in the field. He spun around but there was no sign of them, or his mother.

"Five days, John." His father's voice echoed in his head. He sounded close, but John couldn't see him. "Do you know the hell you just put me through?"

There, by the edge of the woods. John saw his father standing in uniform, his arms crossed, his face set in a permanent frown.

"No son of mine would have done that," his father said, and John remembered him saying it before in a different situation, but at the moment he couldn't recall what exactly he'd done.

"Dad?" John yelled. He walked toward him, step after dizzying step.

"Dad, wait. Please."

His father had turned away and disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

"Dad!"

The scream tore from his throat, and John gasped as he struggled to breathe. Light pierced his eyelids from every direction.

"How sweet. Colonel Sheppard thinks I'm his father." A voice spoke, and grunting laughter followed. John blinked his eyes open, half relieved he wasn't dreaming, half wishing he'd never woken up. Jamayan stood in front of him, and guards stood along the walls. They were back in the interrogation room, although John had no memory of how he'd gotten there. He shifted in the seat, wincing at the ropes tied too tightly around his arms and legs.

As if those were necessary. If it wasn't for the ropes tying him upright, John was pretty sure he would have fallen flat on his face. His left shoulder was numb again, not quite out of its socket with his arms pulled behind his back, but close enough.

"Thought we'd lost you for good there for awhile," Jamayan said between mouthfuls of food. John's stomach clenched at the smell, but he wasn't sure if it was because he was hungry or if it was because he was nauseous.

John stared at the ugly red gash on the side of Jamayan's face and remembered his escape attempt. He'd been so close. He looked down at his leg and saw a dirty bandage soaked through with dried blood wrapped around his thigh. At least the bullet wound wasn't bleeding anymore.

"What?" His voice was hoarse and cracked.

"Your leg bled a lot. The guards could barely wake you to give you water," Jamayan answered, finishing his plate of food. He signaled one of the guards along the wall, who immediately stepped forward with a ladle of water and tilted it toward John's mouth.

John gulped the water down, desperately thirsty again.

"How long?"

"Since you killed three of my men and gave me this?" Jamayan asked, pointing to the cut on his face. His smile had disappeared, and a hard edge loomed in his voice. John was just aware enough to see the anger quivering in the man's muscles. "A few days—maybe more, maybe less."

Jamayan walked around the chair so that he was standing directly behind John. "Too long. I grow tired of your stubbornness."

John shivered at the icy tone but clamped his mouth shut. He took a deep breath through his nose, then another, trying to calm rattled nerves. Whatever happened next, John would not answer Jamayan or give him or the Genii any of the answers they were after.

"What were you and your people doing here?" Jamayan asked. His voice was still low and eerily calm. John stared straight ahead, focusing on a dent in the wall in front of him.

"We have the address to Atlantis, John," Jamayan said. He was walking circles around the chair, but he paused in front of his captive. "You already gave us that days ago."

"I did not," John spat out, his eyes flashing.

"You did. We also know that Atlantis has a shield." Jamayan had started walking again, and his voice floated over John's shoulder. John searched his mind frantically for any inkling of when he might have revealed Atlantis's gate address, but he came up with nothing. He was sure he hadn't given away Atlantis. Almost positive.

Almost.

"What is the code to get passed the shield?"

"Go to hell." John focused again on the wall in front of him.

The punch came from behind, landing on the side of his head. It wasn't a hard punch, and any other day he might have laughed, but his concussion and then days in his cell with little water were enough to leave him reeling from the slap. Jamayan was obviously still trying to keep him lucid and alive, but John knew that wasn't going to last much longer.

"Tell me how to get into Atlantis."

John kept his mouth shut and was rewarded by a few more punches in his chest and stomach, this time a little harder.

"Tell me the codes!" Jamayan yelled.

"There are no codes. Atlantis was destroyed," John yelled back.

"You're lying."

Jamayan suddenly came at him with his knife, and John flinched. He closed his eyes, anticipating the pain, but it never came. He stared up into Jamayan's smiling face, the knife held loosely in his hand just under John's chin.

"You will talk," Jamayan said. He grabbed John's t-shirt and slit it off with the knife, then turned away from him. He talked quietly to a guard and they moved out of sight. John could hear them fiddling with something behind him but couldn't quite figure out what they were up to.

He forced his jaw to unclench. Jamayan spoke again to the guards, then appeared in front of John holding a long metal bar. The tip glowed a bright orange. John felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest and a cold sweat break out all over his body. Jamayan held the bar in his hand, swinging it around in front of John's chest.

"The codes."

"No," John breathed.

Jamayan moved slowly and deliberately so that John could feel the heat emanating from orange tip of the bar a second before it touched the bare skin of his stomach. John screamed, arching away from the chair in a vain attempt to get away from pain. Jamayan couldn't have held it to him for more than a few seconds, but it seemed like minutes had passed by the time the pain diminished enough for John to become aware of things around him again. He was slumped over in the chair, panting.

Jamayan stood in front of him. John wasn't sure if he said anything to him or not, but suddenly the white-hot tip of the bar as being jammed into him again. He screamed again, and in his struggles felt his left shoulder pop out of its socket again, but the pain from the burns in his stomach was overpowering.

A splash of cold water brought John to consciousness suddenly. He hadn't even realized he'd passed out. They had untied him from the chair, but his arms hung loose and dead at his sides. Jamayan stood in front of him. John could hardly focus on him. For a second, Jamayan looked like his father, and he wondered idly what his father would think of his death.

Words were exchanged over his head, but John was barely holding onto consciousness and could focus on nothing more than breathing through the pain. This was it. This was what Jamayan had been building up to.

Hands thrust him forward and the rod was shoved into his back. John screamed again, but it came out cracked and rough and weak. He squirmed but the guards held him easily in place, and John's vision began to gray.

Jamayan was suddenly in his face, holding John's head up. His foul breath made John want to choke, and he panted against the feeling of his chest caving in on him. Blood ran from his mouth and nose, but he didn't remember getting hit. He could taste the coppery iron on his tongue.

"Tell me how we can get into Atlantis?" Jamayan demanded. "We know that is where you are from."

"I told you, Atlantis was destroyed," John whispered.

"I do not believe you," Jamayan said. He nodded to a guard behind him, and John turned his head slightly to see the man crouched beside a crude fireplace. The guard pulled out the rod from the embers and stood behind John.

"What is the address to Atlantis?" Jamayan's voice was low, dangerous.

John started, smiling despite the situation. "I thought you said I already told you that."

He looked up in time to see Jamayan's face harden, caught in his previous lie. Jamayan jerked his head at the guard and the burning end of the stick was shoved against his spine in his lower back.

John tried not to scream again, his throat already raw. He bit through his lip before finally giving into the pain. The air in his lungs whooshed out but no sound followed.

Jamayan was yelling at him again, but John closed his eyes, willing himself to pass out. He heard a distant explosion, and shouts of panic, and then he hit the floor and slipped gratefully into oblivion.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

Incessant tapping was the first thing he became aware of, and he imagined rain hitting the building and sliding off the roof into deep, clear puddles. His throat was sore and dry but otherwise he felt alright. Better than any other time he'd woken up in the Natayans' cell.

The pain would come. He knew this absolutely. He was even a little surprised that he'd woken up again at all. The last thing he remembered was the hot metal rod being pushed into his stomach and back, of Jamayan finally losing his temper when John still refused to reveal the address to Atlantis.

His heart rate increased. If Jamayan had been willing to burn him and still keep him alive, what was he planning next? He didn't know how much longer he could hold out, or how much more he could put up with.

"Sheppard?"

Jamayan's voice sounded different today, almost concerned and full of worry. He must really be in bad shape for that. The tapping sound stopped abruptly, like a tropical storm that came and went in the blink of an eye.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he jerked in surprise, igniting every nerve ending in his body. He moaned at the onslaught and tried to roll away from the touch, but his body was weak and shaking and refused to obey him.

"Ah, crap. Crap, crap, crap," Jamayan muttered above him, still with that worried tone. Maybe it wasn't Jamayan. John had a hard time attaching the voice he was hearing to the cruel, bearded face of his captor.

Noises erupted around him—beeping and cries for help, shuffling and clicking and scratching. John groaned again, wishing he'd just pass out and never wake up again.

"Colonel? Can you hear me, lad? I know you're awake," another voice said, this one also full of concern, but less panicky than the first voice.

Hands touched him, pushing against his arms, stomach, and chest. John whimpered at the pain that shot through his stomach and he remembered Jamayan coming at him with the metal rod, glowing orange at one end.

"No," he cried out. "No more, please. Please, stop—no more."

"Easy, lad. You're alright. You're home; you're safe." The second voice again.

He wondered if he could believe it. His body shook from the pain, but even as he considered it, the pain began to recede.

"I've given you a little something to take the edge off, but I really need you to open your eyes now, Colonel."

Hands held his face—soft hands with strong, confidant fingers.

"Open your eyes, John, just for a second. You've been asleep for three days now."

John blinked, expecting the blackness of the cell to materialize around him, or the dirty room with the chair. The ceiling—green and gray and blue—framed the face of a man with short brown hair and blue eyes.

"There you are," he said, and John heard the second voice.

He blinked away the blurriness and focused on the man who held his face in his hands. "Carson?" he whispered. He felt his lips move and the soft tickle of exhaled air but heard no sound.

"Aye, it's me. You're home, John. We got you back."

John nodded slightly, but already his eyelids were starting to droop. He blinked, and Carson was suddenly gone. John rolled his head on the pillow, soaking in the sights and sounds of the Atlantis infirmary.

"Hey." It was the first voice again, the one full of worry and panic and anxiety.

"McKay," John tried to say again, but could barely form the word with his mouth. He settled for smiling slightly and watched as McKay's face lit up and relaxed into a smile of his own. The scientist leaned back in his chair, his laptop balanced precariously on his lap, his arm heavily casted and in a sling.

John stared at the sling, then at McKay's face. McKay caught the look, and the silent question with it.

"You won't believe how hard it was to find you. We searched for days and days and days. Once we made it back to the gate and you suddenly stopped answering the radio, we knew something was wrong," McKay started, and then the words tumbled out of him, faster than John could keep up with. He smiled again as his friend spoke, the words traveling a hundred miles an hour out of McKay to swirl and rock John back to sleep.

* * *

John woke up in a haze of heat and sweat. This couldn't be the cell. The cell had been cold and damp. He tried to look around, even managed to roll his head back and forth, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

A noise above him startled him into full wakefulness, but it took a minute for his brain to process the sights and sounds. It was dark, but not black like the cell. Atlantis. He was home. A touch on his arm made him flinch, and he rolled his head toward the nurse standing next to him.

"I'm sorry, Colonel. I'm just going to grab Doctor Beckett." And then she was gone.

John pushed at the blankets covering him. They were stifling. His left arm and shoulder were bound tightly, but even beneath the drugs, tensing muscles shot bolts of pain throughout his body, and he groaned.

"Try not to move, Colonel," Beckett said. The doctor stood at the end of the bed, looking at his chart, then walked up to the monitors and studied them for a few minutes. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot," John breathed more than said.

"Aye," Beckett answered. He stuck a thermometer in John's ear then clucked at the numbers it showed. John closed his eyes as Beckett and the nurse talked above him. His whole body ached, and he had barely enough energy to squirm uncomfortably in the bed. Beckett talked to him again, but the words sounded foreign. For a split second, John thought of Afghanistan and the young Taliban soldier that had stood over him, barely old enough to understand what he had been involved in.

A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present, and John rolled his head to the side. Ronon stared down at him, glancing occasionally at the nurse and Beckett on the other side until they finally left.

John blinked, surprised he hadn't noticed the larger man earlier. He was feeling the pull of sleep, too, but was not ready to surrender to oblivion yet. He had questions he needed answers to first.

"Sorry it took us so long to find you," Ronon said as he sat down on the chair next to the bed.

John shrugged, then winced at the pull on his left shoulder.

Ronon pointed at the shoulder. "Doc says you messed it up pretty well, but it should recover fully. Something ripped—muscles or ligaments—and you'll need physical therapy to, you know, make it better."

John nodded, feeling relieved and almost amused that it was Ronon and not Beckett giving him the rundown on his injuries.

"Beckett said the burns on your back and stomach are infected, but he's trying to stay on top of it. That's why you have the fever. Oh, and you had a bad concussion."

John nodded again, flinching at the memory of Jamayan jamming the burning orange tip into his flesh. "Jamayan?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The leader…"

"The guy beating you with the rod? Dead. When we got there, you were on the floor and he was hitting you with that rod. McKay tackled him."

John's eyebrows rose, a small smile flittering across his lips.

"I know. He moved faster than I could shoot. Jamayan kept trying to hit you, but McKay covered you and ended up getting his arm broken in two places. When McKay went down, I got him."

John relaxed into the pillow, exhausted from listening. So that's how McKay had hurt his arm. "My leg?"

"Beckett had to do surgery to get the bullet out, but he said it could have been worse. You'll need physical therapy for that also," Ronon answered. He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his face with his hands without realizing how tired and stressed out it made him look.

"I knew something was wrong when I got to the gate," he mumbled. "We radioed you and you didn't answer. I wanted to come back for you then, but that scientist that got hit with the arrow, he was in bad shape."

"How…how is he?"

Ronon shook his head. "Lost too much blood. That arrow nicked his heart. Sorry."

John felt a stab of guilt through his chest. He should have protected him. He should have done more. That man had placed his trust in John, and John had failed.

"Wasn't your fault," Ronon said, reading the expression on John's face. John shook his head—it was his fault, but there was nothing more he could do now but add yet another name to the list of dead.

"By the time we got back to the planet, you'd disappeared," Ronon said then paused, staring down at his hands. "Took us almost two weeks to find you."

John blinked slowly. Two weeks. Two whole weeks in that dark, damp, cold cell. Two weeks of being tortured by the Natayans. He shuddered, and watch the guilt crease Ronon's face. John could tell he'd almost reached his limit and that he'd be unable to fight the fatigue for much longer.

"S'okay…found me in…end…" he slurred.

"Sorry we didn't find you sooner, buddy." Ronon leaned forward again, squeezing John's shoulder. "Rest now. We can talk again later."

John's eyes slid shut almost automatically, but he just glimpsed Ronon relaxing into the chair and putting his feet up on the side of the bed before he fell deep asleep.

* * *

The fever persisted for days, and the rest of the week passed in a haze for John. When he'd first woken up, still somewhat lucid, he'd been hooked up to every contraption and tube the infirmary seemed to have. The two weeks of near starvation had convinced Beckett to put in a feeding tube, but he'd removed it soon after John had regained consciousness. Now, he was fretting again over John's weight, and contemplating putting the feeding tube back in.

"No tube," John muttered. His voice was still low and hoarse, but steadily improving. "Please," he added. He knew he was begging, but he didn't have the energy to do anything else.

"You were dangerously underweight when you were brought in, and the combination of the fever and the meds I've got you on has all but killed whatever appetite you had left."

"Please," John whispered.

Beckett chewed his lip as he stared down at his patient. John tried to look strong, or convincing—anything but the weak, vulnerable, sickly person he felt like lying flat on the bed.

"My appetite will come back. I can do this," John emphasized. "Please let me deal with this my way."

"Alright, lad. We'll try it your way, but if I don't see marked improvement in the next few days, we do it my way—no arguments."

John nodded, sighing in relief. Beckett pulled down the blankets and listened to John's heart and lungs. John stared at the ceiling and drifted, not really sleeping but not really awake either. He vaguely felt Beckett's hands on his face, then arms, chest, stomach. He winced slightly as the doctor peeled the bandages back to check on the burns. Beckett shook his head at what he saw, then moved down to check on the wound in his leg.

"I'll leave you be for a bit. Need anything?" he asked a few minutes later as he pulled the covers back up and tucked them in.

John shook his head. He knew he should be asking about his condition, asking to be allowed to take a shower, asking to be released, but none of the words seemed to get through the hazy fog in his brain. Beckett stared at him for a moment in open concern, which John knew would normally have made him a bit irritated at being treated like such a helpless victim. Instead, he shrugged it off and drifted off to sleep.

He stood in the field, the bright blue sky above him spotted with white clouds. The yellow grass was taller, almost to his waist, and he walked through it, scaring up a flock of birds. He watched their sleek black bodies shoot into the air and catch the invisible air currents swirling above his head.

The Jumper burned next to him, the entire thing encased in flames. Already, the metal was blackened, and soon there would be nothing but a dead husk left. The screaming from within had stopped long before, and the field was eerily quiet.

"Johnny?" a voice whispered across the field. John walked slowly, but he spotted the figure of his father standing near the edge of the woods. He waved, and his father waved back.

"Do you know the hell you put me through?" Again, the voice of his father, sounding much closer than the man standing on the other side of the clearing.

"Sorry, dad," John answered.

"Look, John! Look up, babe. Look at the birds!" And suddenly his mother was standing in front of him point up at the sky, her sun dress fluttering in the breeze. John stopped and stared at her, as young and beautiful and full of life as she'd been when he was a small child.

"You're missing the birds, Johnny! Look!"

John looked, again catching sight of the black birds making lazy circles around the field before settling down on the ground again. He watched the flapping of their wings, the curve of their necks as they ducked into air currents that shot them into the sky. When he looked back at his mother, she was gone—the spot she had stood in a moment before an empty space.

"Mom?"

"Johnny?"

John looked across the field at the sound of his dad's voice, and saw both his parents standing there, arm in arm. They waved, but before he could wave back, they turned and walked into trees, disappearing into the shadows.

"Wait!" John yelled, running forward. "Wait! Don't go, please."

"Sheppard? Sheppard, wake up," another voice sounded close to his ear. He groaned at the sudden onslaught of pain. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the field was gone and the infirmary surrounded him.

"Sheppard?"

"Dream…" he whispered.

"Yeah," McKay answered. He sat down on the chair next to the bed with a pained sigh, cradling the arm in the sling.

"You okay?" John asked.

"Just broke my arm in two places. I'll probably never get full mobility again even after months and months of painful physical therapy."

"Your arm…" John blinked at the scientist.

"I mean, Beckett said it would heal eventually, but just because the chicken bones say one thing one day, doesn't mean they'll say the same thing the next, or that anything voodoo chicken bone reading tells you is actually reliable information."

"Chicken?"

"Uh, never mind. You're still a little too drugged out for that conversation."

John opened his mouth, still not following a word McKay was saying, but before he could ask, McKay held up his hand. "Again, never mind," the physicist said. He sat back in the chair, watching people walk pass through the infirmary. John relaxed back into the pillow, feeling exhausted again even though he'd just barely woken up.

"How are you doing?" McKay asked suddenly.

John jerked at the sound of McKay's voice. He'd almost drifted off to sleep again. He rolled his head on the pillow to look at the scientist, and shrugged his one good shoulder.

"Beckett said some of those...burns…were pretty badly infected." McKay spoke, grimacing at the words as if they tasted horrible. "You're healing a lot slower than he thinks you should, and he's been going on and on about your weight. What does he expect after the kind of treatment you received? I tried to tell him that, but you know how he worries."

John nodded. Sometimes talking to McKay was easy—a nod here and a grunt there, and McKay filled in the rest of the blanks.

"Do you know what you've put us through?"

For a second, John thought he heard the voice of his father, and he sat up—or tried to. Pain erupted in his shoulder, stomach, and back, and he collapsed almost immediately in a moan.

"Geez! What are you doing?" McKay cried out. John breathed deeply, working through the pain until it subsided to a more tolerable level. McKay stood over him, his hands reaching out for John, but hovering above him, not quite sure what they were supposed to do.

"Sorry, forgot," John whispered.

"Forgot? How could you forget? Although I guess you do forget, and then you do it all over again. That's why I took this picture—so you'll remember what you put us through every time you do this."

McKay held out a snapshot, which John took with shaking fingers and held up. It showed him in bed, his face black and blue and his eyes almost swollen shut. White bandages around his shoulder and midsection. The smaller burns not covered in bandages stood out red and angry against his pale skin. He was hooked up to all kinds of monitors, an IV, oxygen, and a feeding tube. If John didn't know better, he would have guessed the man in the photograph was either dead or soon would be.

"You can keep it. That way, the next time your deciding whether or not to do something that may be detrimental to your health, you'll remember this and think twice."

"Sorry," John mumbled. He reached over to set the photograph on the table next to the bed, but McKay grabbed it and set it down for him.

"Seriously," he asked after a long moment. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, I know you're not okay—I'm not even okay—but are you going to be okay?"

John wanted to curl up on his side and pull the covers up over his head, but his leg was still propped up, his stomach was covered in painful burns, and his shoulder was completely immobilized. He closed his eyes instead, and felt a deep weariness.

"Just tired," he whispered. McKay wanted more than that, John knew, but that was the best John could come up with at the moment. Beckett wanted more too—more fight, more demands, more eating. So did Ronon, and Teyla, and Elizabeth.

He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep.

"Well, alright. If you need anything, just…um…call me or something."

The grimace on John's face slowly relaxed as he finally gave into the sleep pulling him under.

* * *

John woke up to the sound of Teyla humming next to him. The infirmary was bright, filled with sunshine streaming through the side windows. It had to be morning then. John vaguely remembered being woken up the night before to choke down half a cup of some broth, but otherwise, the night had passed dreamlessly.

He lay there with his eyes closed, listening to Teyla. She didn't realize he was awake yet, he was sure of that. His pain meds must have been recently topped off as well, because everything felt muted and warm and safe.

"John?" Teyla whispered. John's face twitched at the sound of his name, and he opened his eyes slowly to see Teyla sitting next to him.

"Hey," he answered quietly.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

How was he feeling? That had been the question on everyone's lips every time they came to see him. The problem was, he wasn't sure what he was feeling. He couldn't even bring himself to utter the usual _I'm fine _response.

He shrugged his good shoulder, and almost smiled when that small movement didn't immediately ignite a series of other aches and pains. Teyla leaned forward, running her fingers through his hair. She was the only one—other than nurses and doctors—that touched him, but he didn't mind as much as he thought he would.

He closed his eyes, feeling her warmth—a hand on his head and one on his forearm—and a lump bulged suddenly in his throat. He swallowed desperately against the sudden urge to cry, a little frightened at the power of the emotions swarming through him.

John managed to bring himself back from the brink of a sobbing deluge, but even fast blinking couldn't hold it all back. He felt a tear slide down the side of his face and he hoped Teyla wouldn't notice.

"John, what's wrong?"

John cringed, realizing Teyla had seen it all. He shook his head. "I don't know," he answered, whispering so low he almost couldn't even hear himself.

"Doctor Beckett thinks your are suffering from depression and that it is affecting your physical recovery," Teyla said.

John stared up at her, startled. _No!_ he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. Maybe they were right; maybe he was depressed.

"Sorry," he mumbled, echoing what he'd said to both McKay and Ronon earlier.

"You do not need to apologize, John. You have done nothing wrong."

John nodded but could not bring himself to say anything more. He hoped desperately that they would talk about something else, or that a nurse would interrupt them, or that he'd just fall back to sleep.

He'd been home for two weeks though, and he should be getting better faster than this. He looked up at Teyla, only to see her look up and someone else coming toward them. Elizabeth.

"Hello, John," Elizabeth said, coming around to the side of the bed and smiling down at him. She looked tired, lines of stress and strain showing around the corners of her eyes and mouth.

John nodded, smiling slightly at her.

"How are you feeling?"

The question again. John gave his new standard response, a one-shoulder shrug. Elizabeth nodded, pulling up a chair and sitting back. She folded her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers together.

"What is it?" John asked. He knew she only ever looked like that when she had something she needed to say that might not be good news. He could feel his heart starting to pound in his chest.

"I've talked to both Doctors Heightmeyer and Beckett, and we think you need some time off to recover."

"Okay," John said slowly, not quite following where she was going with this.

"I mean, we think you need to get away from Atlantis for a while."

John's breath caught in his throat. They wanted him out of Atlantis? He looked from Elizabeth to Teyla, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"It is alright, John. We just want you to heal," Teyla spoke, no doubt trying to reassure the look of panic on John's face, but John's panic, if anything, increased.

"John, you're not being kicked out of Atlantis, but when you're here, you never really get any time off. Even sick or injured, you're still involved in everything that goes on." Elizabeth took a deep breath before continuing. "I've already cleared this with the SGC—you've been ordered to take seven to ten days of leave back on Earth when Carson releases you from the infirmary."

"After all you have experienced these last few months, you deserve a few days rest. We will be waiting here for you when you return," Teyla added.

One week. He could do one week. Deep down, he knew he needed it too. He was at the end of his limits—physically, mentally, emotionally. He flashed on the image of the crashed jumper, then the clearing, the attack by the Natayans, Jamayan standing over him with a burning metal rod.

"Rodney's going too. He needs a break as well. Your exact orders are to be gone at least seven days but no more than ten." Elizabeth paused, chewing on the bottom of her lip.

Slowly, John nodded. Seven to ten days—not so long really, in the bigger scheme of things. Elizabeth smiled in relief. She talked a while longer, mostly to Teyla, but John didn't really listen.

His mind played back the dream of the field, the burning jumper, of his father and mother standing at the edge of the clearing. His mother had died years ago, but he wasn't sure about his father. It had been years since they'd spoken, and John was suddenly consumed with the desire to either make amends, or end that part of his life once and for all so those deeper scars could finally heal.

Maybe, just maybe, seven to ten days would be enough time to visit his hometown and see what his old man was up to after all this time…

END

_A/N: Now read "Going Home" by Titan5!_


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